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SOUTHERN  WRITERS  SERI  S 


In  a  series  of  twelve  papers  the  writer  proposes 
to  give  a  tolerably  complete  survey  of  that  lflterary 
movement  which,  beginning  about  1870,  has  e  >read 
over  the  entire  South.  Since  that  time  Southern 
writers  have  been  conspicuous  among  the  chief  con 
tributors  to  the  nation’s  literature.  There  v,'  be 
no  attempt  to  place  a  final  estimate  upon  thi-  con¬ 
tribution,  though  some  critical  opinions  wil  now 
and  then  be  offered.  The  effort  will  be  rat  r  to 
present  biographical  data  and  literary  apj  -gela¬ 
tions — to  stimulate  the  desire  for  a  more  in  Mate 
acquaintance  with  this  literature  which  is  so 
original,  and  racy  of  the  soil.  The  series  w  ap 
pear  as  follows: 

No.  1.  Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

No.  2.  Maurice  Thompson. 

No.  3.  Sidney  Lanier. 

No.  4.  Irwin  Russell. 

No.  5.  Mrs.  Margaret  J.  Preston. 

No.  6.  George  Washington  Cable. 

No.  7.  Charles  Egbert  Craddock. 

No.  8.  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston, 

No.  9.  Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

No.  10.  James  Lane  Allen. 

No.  11.  Miss  Grace  King. 

No.  12.  Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 

These  writers  may  not  unfairly  be  considered 
typical  and  representative  of  the  best  that  has  been 
produced  in  this  new  era. 

Southern  Writers:  Published  Monthly. 
Subscription  price,  $1  a  year.  Single  copies,  10 
cents,  postage  paid. 

Send  orders  for  the  whole  series  or  for  separate 
numbers  to 

BARBEE  6c  SMITH,  Agents, 

Nashville,  Tenn, 


Copyright,  1896^ 


3oel  CbanMer  Ibarrts. 


IDDLE  GEORGIA  is  the 
birthplace  and  home  of  the 
raciest  and  most  original 
kind  of  Southern  humor)  (in  this 
quarter  native  material  was  earliest 
recognized  and  first  made  use  of.  A 
school  of  writers  arose  who  looked 
out  of  their  eyes  and  listened  with 
their  ears,  who  took  frank  interest  in 
things  for  their  own  sake,  and  had 
enduring  astonishment  at  the  most 
common.  They  seized  the  warm 
and  palpitating  facts  of  everyday 
existence,  and  gave  them  to  the 
world  with  all  the  accompaniments 
of  quaint  dialect,  original  humor, 
and  Southern  plantation  life.  1  'The 
Middle  Georgians  are  a  simple, 
healthy,  homogeneous  folk,  resem¬ 
bling  for  the  most  part  other  South¬ 
erners  of  like  rank  and  calling  in 
their  manners,  customs,  and  general 

1 


5oel  CbanMer  Ibattts* 


way  of  living.  But  they  have  de¬ 
veloped  a  certain  manly,  vigorous, 
fearless  independence  of  thought 
and  action,  and  an  ever  increasing 
propensity  to  take  a  humorous  view 
of  life.  In  their  earlier  writings  it 
is  a  homely  wit,  in  which  broad  hu¬ 
mor  and  loud  laughter  predominate  ; 
but  tears  are  lurking  in  the  corners 
of  the  eyes,  and  genuine  sentiment 
nestles  in  the  heart.  In  more  re¬ 
cent  times  the  horizon  has  widened, 
and  there  has  been  a  gain  in  both 
breadth  of  view  and  depth  of  in¬ 
sight.  Genius  and  art  have  com¬ 
bined  to  make  this  classic  soil.  J 
It  is  a  small  section  of  country, 
comprising  only  a  few  counties,  but 
with  them  are  indelibly  associated 
the  names  of  A.  B.  Longstreet,  W. 
T.  Thompson,  J.  J.  Hooper,  Francis 
O.  Ticknor,  Richard  Malcolm  John¬ 
ston,  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards,  Sid¬ 
ney  Lanier,  Maurice  Thompson,  Joel 
Chandler  Harris,  and  many  other  less 
known  writers.  If  we  turn  to  their 
characters  and  scenes,  the  associa- 

2 


3oel  GbanDler  Ibatds. 


tion  is  still  more  intimate.  Ransy 
Sniffle  and  Ned  Brace  belong  to 
Baldwin,  the  scene  of  “  The  Fight,” 
u  The  Gander  Pulling,”  and  u  The 
Militia  Drill.”  In  the  woods  and 
along  the  river  banks  of  the  same 
county  u  The  Two  Runaways  ” 
were  wont  at  a  later  day  to  enjoy 
their  annual  escapade.  “  Simon 
Suggs  ”  was  a  native  of  Jasper; 
“  Major  Jones’s  Courtship  ”  took 
place  in  Morgan ;  “  Mr.  Absalom 
Billingslea  and  Other  Georgia 
Folk”  are  at  home  in  Hancock; 
but  to^Putnam  County  was  awarded 
the  honor  of  giving'  birth  to  u  Uncle 
Remus,”  a  veritable  Ethiopian 
FEsop,  philosopher,  and  gentleman, 
and  to  the  u  Little  Boy,”  whose 
inexhaustible  curiosity  and  eager¬ 
ness  to  hear  a  “  story  ”  have  called 
forth  the  most  valuable  and,  in  the 
writer’s  opinion,  the  most  perma¬ 
nent  contribution  to  American  lit¬ 
erature  ijn  the  last  quarter  of  this 
century. 

This  school  of  humorists  are  not 

3 


$oel  CbanMcc  Ibarrts. 


realists  at  all  in  the  modern  sense ; 
for  nothing  is  farther  from  their 
writings  than  sadness,  morbidness, 
and  pessimism.  (Naturalism  is  the 
term  by  which  their  literary  method 
may  best  be  characterized.^  (They 
look  frankly  and  hearken  attentive¬ 
ly,^' following,  at  a  great  distance  it 
may  be,  Fielding’s  and  the  great 
master’s  plan  of  holding  the  mirror 
lip  to  nature.  But  coloring,  tone, 
and  substance  have  been  reproduced 
with  such  absolute  fidelity  because 
the  heart  is  full  of  hope,  the  eye 
bright,  and  a  smile  ever  playing 
around  the  mouth.  It  is  also  easy 
to  see  that  they  are  to  the  manner 
born.  “  To  be  sure,”  says  Judge 
Longstreet,  “in  writing  the 
1  Georgia  Scenes  ’  I  have  not  con¬ 
fined  myself  to  strictly  veracious 
historic  detail ;  but  there  is  scarcely 
one  word  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  the  book  that  is  not 
strictly  Georgian.  The  scenes 
which  I  describe — as,  for  instance, 
‘  The  Gander  Pulling’ — occurred  at 

4 


3oel  CbanDlet  Ibams. 

the  very  place  where  I  locate  them.” 
Shortly  after  the  appearance  of 
“  The  Adventures  of  Capt.  Simon 
Suggs,”  a  friend  met  the  original 
on  the  streets  of  Monticello  and 
said :  “  Squire  Suggs,  do  you  re¬ 
member  Jonce  Hooper  —  little 
Jonce?  ”  “Seems  to  me  I  do,” 
replied  Mr.  Suggs.  “  Well,  Squire, 
little  Jonce  has  gone  and  noveled 
you.”  Mr.  Suggs  looked  serious. 
“  Gone  and  noveled  me?  ”  he  ex¬ 
claimed.  “Well,  I’ll  be  dangecl ! 
Gone  and  noveled  me  ?  What 
could  ’a  possessed  him  ?  ”  Since 
the  Civil  War  the  “  noveling  ” 
process  has  gone  on  with  enlarged 
sympathies  and  greater  success.  A 
new  figure  has  been  added  to  the 
picture,  making  it  more  complete — 
the  negro.  With  the  wider  view 
has  also  come  greater  freedom  of 
treatment,  and  no  writers  in  the 
South  have  appreciated  this  mental 
and  artistic  liberty  more  than  the 
Georgians.  Each  of  them  has,  by 
means  of  the  simplicity,  humor,  and 

5 


$oel  CbanMcr  Ibarrts* 


individuality  which  characterize  the 
school,  made  a  distinct  contribution 
to  the  sum  of  human  interest  and 
enjoyment.  (But  the  most  sympa¬ 
thetic,  the  most  original,  the  truest 
delineator  of  this  larger  life — its 
manners,  customs,  amusements, 
dialect,  folklore,  humor,  pathos,  and 
character — is  Joel  Chandler  Harris.) 

His  birthplace  was  Eatonton,  the 
capital  of  Putnam  County,  in  Middle 
Georgia,  and  the  date  of  his  birth 
December  9,  1848.  Slight  bio- 
grapical  and  personal  sketches  of 
him  have  appeared  in  the  Critic , 
in  Literature ,  and  in  the  Book 
Buyer ,  but  the  best  account  of  his 
early  life  is  to  be  found  in  “  On  the 
Plantation,”  one  of  the  most  inter¬ 
esting  books  that  Mr.  Harris  has 
written.  In  this  delightful  volume 
it  is  not  easy  to  tell  “where  confes¬ 
sion  ends  and  how  far  fiction  em¬ 
broiders  truth.”  But  the  author  has 
kindly  left  it  to  the  reader  to  “  sift 
the  fact  from  the  fiction,  and  label 
it  to  suit  himself.”  As  has  been 

6 


3oel  Gbanfclet  Ibarrts, 


said  of  another  romancer,  it  is  not 
through  the  accidental  circumstan¬ 
ces  of  his  life  that  he  belongs  to 
history,  but  through  his  talent ;  and 
his  talent  is  in  his  books.  Our  first 
glimpse  of  Mr.  Harris  is  in  the  lit¬ 
tle  post  office  of  Eatonton,  which  is 
also  a  u  country  store,”  and  much 
frequented  for  both  purposes.  He 
is  sitting  upon  a  rickety,  old,  faded 
green  sofa,  in  a  corner  of  which  he 
used  to  curl  up  nearly  every  day, 
reading  such  stray  newspapers  as 
he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  and 
watching  the  people  come  and  go. 
His  look  betrays  shyness  and  sensi¬ 
tiveness,  though  it  is  full  of  obser¬ 
vation.  He  is  reading  in  a  Mil- 
ledgeville  paper  the  announcement 
of  a  Mr.  Turner,  whose  acquaint¬ 
ance  he  has  recently  made,  that  he 
will  begin  the  publication  the  fol¬ 
lowing  Tuesday  of  a  weekly  news¬ 
paper,  to  be  called  the  Country¬ 
man .  It  is  to  be  modeled  after  Mr. 
Addison’s  little  paper,  the  Specta¬ 
tor ,  Mr.  Goldsmith’s  little  paper, 

7 


3-oe l  GbanDler  Ibarrts* 


the  Bee ,  and  Mr.  Johnson’s  little 
paper,  the  Rambler.  He  has 
heard  of  these,  for  he  has  had  a 
few  terms  in  the  Eatonton  Acade¬ 
my,  and  read  some  of  the  best  books 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  When 
the  u  Vicar  of  Wakefield”  is  men¬ 
tioned  his  eye  sparkles,  for  since  he 
was  six  years  of  age  that  wonderful 
story  has  been  a  stimulus  to  his 
imagination,  and  made  him  eager  to 
read  all  books.  He  is  proud  of  his 
acquaintance  with  a  real  editor,  and 
waits  with  great  impatience  for  the 
first  issue  of  the  Countryman.  In 
the  meanwhile  we  learn  that  he  can¬ 
not  be  called  a  studious  lad,  or  at 
any  rate  that  he  is  not  at  all  fond  of 
the  books  in  his  desk  at  the  Eaton¬ 
ton  Academy.  On  the  contrary,  he 
is  of  an  adventurous  turn  of  mind, 
full  of  all  sorts  of  pranks  and 
capers  ;  and  plenty  of  people  in  the 
little  town  are  ready  to  declare  that 
he  will  come  to  some  bad  end  if  he 
is  not  more  frequently  dosed  with 
what  the  old  folks  call  “  hickory 

8 


3-oel  Chandler  Ibarrls* 


oil.”  But  he  has  a  strange  sympa¬ 
thy  with  animals  of  all  kinds,  es¬ 
pecially  horses  and  dogs,  and  a 
deeper,  tenderer  sympathy  with  ail 
human  beings. 

At  last  the  first  issue  arrives,  and 
is  read  from  beginning  to  end — ad¬ 
vertisements  and  all.  The  most  im¬ 
portant  thing  in  it,  as  it  turned  out, 
was  the  announcement  that  the  edi¬ 
tor  wanted  a  boy  to  learn  the  print¬ 
ing  business.  The  friendly  post¬ 
master  furnished  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  and  the  lad  applied  for  the 
place  and  got  it.  Mr.  Turner  lived  I 
about  nine  miles  from  Eatonton,  on 
a  plantation  of  some  two  thousand 
acres,  which  was  well  supplied  with 
slaves,  horses,  dogs,  and  game  of 
different  kinds.  He  was  a  lover  of 
books,  and  had  a  choice  collection  of 
two  or  three  thousand  volumes. 
His  wealth  also  enabled  him  to  con¬ 
duct  the  only  country  newspaper  in 
the  world,  which  he  did  so  success¬ 
fully  that  it  reached  a  circulation  of 
nearly  two  thousand  copies.  On 
1*  9 


5oel  Gbandler  Ibarrfs. 


the  plantation  was  a  pack  of  well- 
trained  harriers,  with  which  the  lit¬ 
tle  printer  hunted  rabbits,  and  a 
fine  hound  or  two  of  the  Birdsong- 
breed,  with  which  he  chased  the  red 
fox.  With  the  negroes  he  learned 
to  hunt  coons,  and  possums,  and 
from  them  he  heard  those  stories 
which  have  since  placed  their  nar¬ 
rator  in  the  list  of  the  immortals. 
The  printing  office  sat  deep  in  a 
large  grove  of  oaks,  full  of  gray 
squirrels  which  kept  the  solitary 
typesetter  company,  running  about 
over  the  roofs  and  playing  “hide 
and  seek”  like  children.  From  his 
window  he  watched  the  partridge 
and  her  mate  build  their  artful  nest, 
observed  their  coquetries,  and  from 
her  mysteriously  skillful  manner  of 
drawing  one  away  from  her  nest  or 
her  young  he  learned  one  of  his 
earliest  and  most  puzzling  lessons 
in  bird  craft.  The  noisy  jay,  the 
hammering  woodpecker,  and  the 
vivacious  and  tuneful  mocking  bird 
lent  their  accompaniment  to  the 

10 


5oel  CbanDler  Ibartis* 


clicking  of  the  types.  At  twelve 
years  o  f  age,  then,  Mr.  Harris 
found  himself  in  this  ideal  situation 
for  the  richest  and  most  healthful 
development  of  his  talents.  Type¬ 
setting  came  easy,  and  the  lad  had 
the  dogs  to  himself  in  the  late  after¬ 
noon  and  the  books  at  night,  and  he 
made  the  most  of  both.  The  schol¬ 
arly  planter  turned  him  loose  to 
browse  at  will  in  his  library,  only 
now  and  then  giving  a  judicious 
hint.  The  great  Elizabethans  first 
caught  his  fancy,  and  quaint  old 
meditative  and  poetical  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  became  one  of  his  prime 
favorites,  a  place  he  yet  holds.  He 
made  many  friends  among  the 
standard  authors  that  only  a  boy  of 
a  peculiar  turn  of  mind  would  take 
to  his  bosom.  But  no  book  at  any 
time  has  ever  usurped  the  place  of 
the  inimitable  “  Vicar  of  Wake¬ 
field  ”  in  his  affections — Goethe’s, 
Scott’s,  Irving’s,  Thackeray’s,  all 
humanity’s  adorable  Vicar.  Mr. 
Harris,  like  Sir  Walter,  has  read  it 

11 


5oel  Chandler  Ibattte. 


in  youth  and  in  age,  and  the  charm 
endures.  In  a  recent  paper  he 
wrote :  “  The  first  book  that  ever 
attracted  my  attention,  and  the  one 
that  has  held  it  longest,  was  and  is 
the  ‘Vicar  of  Wakefield.’  The 
only  way  to  describe  my  experience 
with  that  book  is  to  acknowledge 
that  I  am  a  crank.  It  touches  me 
more  deeply,  it  gives  me  the  i  all- 
overs  ’  more  severely  than  all  others. 
Its  simplicity,  its  air  of  extreme 
wonderment,  have  touched  and  con¬ 
tinue  to  touch  me  deeply.”  These 
two  favorites  have  since  that  early 
period  found  worthy  rivals  in  the 
Bible  and  Shakespeare,  and  he  is 
specially  serious  when  he  talks  of 
his  heroes,  Lee,  Jackson,  and  Lin¬ 
coln.  Job,  Ecclesiastes,  and  Paul’s 
writings  are  his  prime  favorites ; 
but  all  good  books  interest  him 
more  or  less,  though  at  the  present 
time  an  ardent  young  writer  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  this  shrine  would  per¬ 
haps  find  Mr.  Harris’s  library  as 
scantly  supplied  as  Mr.  Howells. 

12 


Joel  GbanDlec  Ibarrle. 


found  Hawthorne’s.  There  are 
only  a  few  books,  but  they  are  the 
best,  and  they  have  been  read  and 
reread.  Emerson,  however,  is  not 
of  this  number ;  his  “  queer  self- 
consciousness  ”  and  attitude  of  self- 
sufficiency  have  never  appealed  to 
him  in  any  winning-  way.  “You 
cannot  expect  an  uncultured  Georgia 
cracker  to  follow  patiently  the  con¬ 
volute  diagrams  of  the  oversoul,” 
he  will  say  ;  adding,  with  a  quizzic¬ 
al  smile:  u  You  see  I  am  perfectly 
frank  in  this,  presenting  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  feeling  as  proud  of  my  lack 
of  taste  and  culture  as  a  little  girl  is 
of  her  rag  doll.”  But  when  culture 
and  individuality  are  united,  as  he 
found  them  in  Lowell,  they  receive 
his  frankest  admiration.  u  Culture 
is  a  very  fine  thing,  indeed,”  he 
wrote  of  Mr.  Lowell  on  his  seven¬ 
tieth  birthday,  “but  it  is  never  of 
much  account,  either  in  life  or  in 
literature,  unless  it  is  used  as  a  cat 
uses  a  mouse,  as  a  source  of  mirth 
and  luxury.  It  is  at  its  finest  in 

13 


$oel  CbanDler  1b arris* 


this  country  when  it  is  grafted  on 
the  sturdiness  that  has  made  the  na¬ 
tion  what  it  is,  and  when  it  is  forti¬ 
fied  by  the  strong  common  sense 
that  has  developed  and  preserved 
the  republic.  This  is  culture  with 
a  definite  aim  and  purpose, 
and  we  feel  the  ardent  spirit  of  it  in 
pretty  much  everything  Mr.  Lowell 
has  written.”  As  for  the  realists, 
he  admires  u  immensely  ”  what  is 
best  in  them,  though  he  has  no 
fondness  for  minute  psychological 
analysis.  He  likes  a  story  and 
u  human  nature,  humble,  fascina¬ 
ting,  plain,  common  human  nature.” 
“A  man  is  known  by  the  company 
he  keeps,”  is  a  saying  with  a  wider 
application,  I  fancy,  than  is  com- 
ly  given  to  it.  I  had  a  friend  once 
— a  strong,  earnest,  meditative,  silent 
man — over  the  mantel  in  whose 
study  hung  a  portrait  of  William 
Cullen  Bryant.  The  kinship  of  na¬ 
ture  could  easily  be  traced  between 
these  two  and  that  great  American 
of  whom  Bryant  wrote  : 

14 


3oel  CbanMer  ibarrte. 


The  wildest  storm  that  sweeps  through 
space, 

And  rends  the  oak  with  sudden  force, 
Can  raise  no  ripple  on  his  face, 

Or  slacken  his  majestic  course. 

I  could  easily  imagine  my  friend 
in  the  heart  of  some  primeval  forest 
— he  had  a  deep  and  reverent  love 
of  nature — repeating  his  favorite 
lines  : 

Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 

In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 

And  so,  consciously  or  unconscious¬ 
ly,  Mr.  Harris  has  imbibed  old- 
fashioned  ways  of  simplicity,  nat¬ 
uralness,  and  truth  from  his  Shakes¬ 
peare  and  Bible  ;  has  had  ingrained 
in  the  fiber  of  his  being  the  gentle¬ 
ness,  delicacy,  and  purity  of  feeling 
which  distinguish  the  good  Vicar’s 
author,  and  has  conformed  his  life 
to  that  sentiment  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne’s  which  11  The  Autocrat  ” 
considered  the  most  admirable  in 
any  literature  :  u  Every  man  truly 
lives  so  long  as  he  acts  his  nature 

15 


^oel  GbanMer  Ibarns, 


or  some  way  makes  good  the  facul¬ 
ties  of  himself.” 

Among  these  books  he  lived  for 
several  years,  and  almost  before  he 
knew  it  he  was  acquainted  with 
those  writers  who  lend  wings  to 
the  creative  imagination,  if  its  deli¬ 
cate  body  has  found  habitation  in  a 
human  soul.  With  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge  went  also  hand  in 
hand  an  observation  of  life  and  of 
nature.  As  he  left  his  native  vil¬ 
lage  in  the  buggy  with  Mr.  Turner, 
he  had  observed  how  quickly  his 
little  companions  returned  to  their 
marbles  after  bidding  him  good-bye  ; 
and  he  had  observed,  too,  how  the 
high  sheriff  was  u  always  in  town 
talking  politics,”  and  talking  “big¬ 
ger  than  anybody.”  When  he  came 
to  the  plantation  his  observant  eye 
took  in  everything,  and  the  observa¬ 
tions  of  the  boy  became  the  basis  of 
the  lifelong  convictions  and  princi¬ 
ples  of  the  man.  His  greatest  na¬ 
ture-gift,  sympathy,  put  him  in 
touch  with  dog  and  horse,  with 

16 


Joel  Cbanblet  1b arris. 


black  runaway  and  white  deserter, 
with  the  master  and  his  slaves. 
These,  he  observed,  treated  him 
with  more  consideration  than  they 
showed  to  other  white  people,  with 
the  exception  of  their  master. 
There  was  nothing  they  were  not 
ready  to  do  for  him  at  any  time  of 
day  or  night.  Taking  him  into 
their  inner  life,  they  poured  a 
wealth  of  legendary  folklore  and 
story  into  his  retentive  ear,  and  to 
him  revealed  their  true  nature ;  for 
it  is  not  a  race  that  plays  its  tricks, 
as  some  one  has  said  of  nature,  un¬ 
reservedly  before  the  eyes  of  every¬ 
body. 

Mr.  Harris  has  never  had  the 
slightest  desire  to  become  a  man  of 
letters ;  but  the  necessity  of  ex¬ 
pressing  himself  in  writing  came 
upon  him  early  in  life.  His  first 
efforts  appeared  in  the  Country¬ 
man ,  sent  in  anonymously.  Kindly 
notice  and  encouragement  induced 
the  young  writer  to  throw  off  dis¬ 
guise  and  to  write  regularly.  His 
1**  17 


3oel  GbanMer  Ibarris. 


contributions  soon  took  a  wider 
range,  embracing  local  articles,  es¬ 
says,  and  poetry.  But  this  idyllic 
existence  was  suddenly  ended. 
Sherman’s  “  march  through 
Georgia  ”  brought  a  corps  of  his 
army  to  the  Turner  plantation,  and 
when  the  foragers  departed  they 
left  little  behind  them  except  a 
changed  order  of  things.  The 
editor-planter  called  up  those  of  his 
former  slaves  that  remained,  and 
told  them  that  they  were  free.  The 
Countryman  passed  away  with  the 
old  order,  devising,  however,  a  rich 
legacy  to  the  new.  “A  larger 
world  beckoned  [to  the  young 
writer]  and  he  went  out  into  it. 
And  it  came  about  that  on  every 
side  he  found  loving  hearts  to  com¬ 
fort  and  strong  and  friendly  hands 
to  guide  him.  He  found  new  asso¬ 
ciations,  and  formed  new  ties.  In 
a  humble  way  he  made  a  name  for 
himself,  but  the  old  plantation  days 
still  live  in  his  dreams.”  The 
u  W ander jahre  ”  were  few  and  un- 

18 


( 

3oel  CbanDlec  Ibartle. 

eventful.  Now  we  find  him  setting 
his  “  string  ”  on  the  Macon  Daily 
Telegraph ,  then  in  a  few  months 
he  is  in  New  Orleans  as  a  private 
secretary  of  the  editor  of  the  Cres¬ 
cent  Monthly ,  keeping  his  hand  in, 
however,  by  writing  bright  para¬ 
graphs  for  the  city  papers.  In  a 
short  while  he  returns  to  Georgia  to 

o 

become  the  editor  of  the  Forsyth 
Advertiser ,  one  of  the  most  influen¬ 
tial  weekly  papers  in  the  State.  In 
addition  to  the  editorial  work,  he 
set  the  type,  worked  off  the  edition 
on  a  hand  press,  and  wrapped  and 
directed  his  papers  for  the  mail. 
His  bubbling  humor  and  pungent 
criticism  of  certain  abuses  in  the 
State  were  widely  copied,  and  spe¬ 
cially  attracted  the  attention  of  Colo¬ 
nel  W.  T.  Thompson,  the  author 
of  “  Major  Jones’s  Courtship”  and 
other  humorous  books,  who  at  that 
time  was  editor  of  the  Savannah 
Daily  Nevus.  He  offered  Mr.  Har¬ 
ris  a  place  on  his  staff,  which  was 
accepted  ;  and  this  pleasant  associa- 

19 


3oel  Gbanfcler  Ibatris. 


tion  lasted  from  1871  to  1876.  In 
the  latter  year  a  yellow  fever  epi¬ 
demic  drove  him  to  Atlanta ;  he 
became  at  once  a  member  of  the 
editorial  staff  of  the  Constitution , 
and  his  literary  activity  began. 
And  it  is  altogether  fitting,  too,  that 
Mr.  Harris’s  success  should  be  iden¬ 
tified  with  this  popular  journal,  for 
no  other  newspaper  published  in  the 
South  has  given  so  much  attention 
to  literary  matters  and  encourage¬ 
ment  to  literary  talent.  Up  to  this 
time  Mr.  Harris  had  written,  so  far 
as  I  am  aware,  but  one  brief  little 
sketch,  a  mere  incident,  which  gave 
any  promise  of  his  future  line  of 
development  and  peculiar  powers. 
It  appeared  in  the  Countryman  at 
the  close  of  the  war — a  little  sequel 
to  the  passing  of  the  Twentieth 
Army  Corps,  commanded  by  Gen¬ 
eral  Slocum,  along  the  road  by  the 
Turner  plantation.  Thinking  that 
the  army  would  take  another  route, 
the  lonely  lad  had  seated  himself  on 
the  fence,  and  before  he  knew  it  the 

20 


3oel  CbanDier  Ibarrie. 


troops  were  upon  him.  Their 
good-natured  chaff  he  endured  with 
a  kind  of  stunned  calmness  till  all 
passed.  He  then  jumped  from  the 
fence  and  made  his  way  home 
through  the  fields.  u  In  a  corner  of 
the  fence,  not  far  from  the  road, 
Joe  found  an  old  negro  woman 
shivering  and  moaning.  Near  her 
lay  an  old  negro  man,  his  shoulders 
covered  with  an  old,  ragged  shawl. 

4  Who  is  that  lying  there  ?  ’  asked  V.. 
Joe.  i  It  my  ole  man,  suh.’  ;  What 
is  the  matter  with  him  ?  ’  1  He  dead, 
suh  ;  but  bless  God,  he  died  free  !  ’  ” 
Just  before  Mr.  Harris  went  to 
Atlanta  Mr.  S.  W.  Small  had  be¬ 
gun  to  give  the  Constitution  a  more 
than  local  reputation  by  means  of 
humorous  negro  dialect  sketches. 
His  resignation  shortly  afterwards 
made  the  proprietors  turn  for  aid  to 
Mr.  Harris,  who,  taking  an  old  ne¬ 
gro  whom  he  had  known  on  the 
Turner  plantation  and  making  him 
chief  spokesman,  brought  out  in 
several  sketches  the  contrast  be- 

21 


3oel  CbanDler  Ibarde. 


tween  the  old  and  the  new  condi¬ 
tion  of  things.  But  he  soon  tired  of 
these,  and  one  night  he  wrote  the 
first  sketch  in  “  Legends  of  the  Plan¬ 
tation,”  in  which  “  Uncle  Remus  ” 
initiates  the  “  Little  Boy,”  just  as  it 
now  appears  in  his  first  published 
volume,  entitled,  “Uncle  Remus: 
His  Songs  and  Sayings.”  Fame 
came  at  once,  though  the  invincible 
modesty  of  the  author  still  refuses  to 
recognize  it.  A  number  of  things 
enhanced  the  value  of  this  produc¬ 
tion — the  wealth  of  folklore,  the  ac- 
^  curate  and  entertaining-  dialect,  the 
delightful  stories,  the  exquisite  pic¬ 
ture  of  “  the  dear  remembered  days.” 
But  the  true  secret  of  the  power  and 
value  of  “  Uncle  Remus  ”  and  his 
“  Sayings  ”  does  not  lie  solely  in  the 
artistic  and  masterly  setting  and 
narration.  The  enduring  quality 
lies  there,  for  he  has  made  a  past 
civilization  “  remarkably  striking  to 
the  mind’s  eye,”  and  shown  that 
rare  ability  “  to  seize  the  heart  of 
the  suggestion,  and  make  a  country 
\  22 


3oel  CbanDler  Ibatrts. 


famous  with  a  legend.”  But  under¬ 
neath  the  art  is  the  clear  view  of 
life,  as  well  as  humor,  wit,  philoso¬ 
phy,  and  “  unadulterated  human  na¬ 
ture.”  We  can  get  little  idea  of  the 
revelation  which  Mr.  Harris  has 
made  of  negro  life  and  character 
without  comparing  his  conception 
and  delineation  with  the  ideal  negro 
of  “  My  Old  Kentucky  Home, 

“  Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin,”  and  “Mars 
Chan  ”  and  “  Meh  Lady,”  and  the 
impossible  negro  of  the  minstrel 
show,  f  A  few  years  ago  the  editor 
of  the  Philadelphia  Times  remarked 
that  u  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  real 
negro  can  be  got  very  clearly  into 
literature  except  by  way  of  minstrel 
shows  and  the  comic  drama.”  In 
answer  to  this  Mr.  Harris  has  truth¬ 
fully  said  that  “  a  representation  o 
negro  life  and  character  has  never 
been  put  upon  the  stage,  nor  any¬ 
thing  remotely  resembling  it ;  but  to 
all  who  have  any  knowledge  of  the 
negro,  the  plantation  darky,  as  he 
was,  is  a  very  attractive  figure.  )  It 

23 


\ 


Joel  CbanOlet*  Ifoams. 


is  a  silly  trick  of  the  clowns  to  give 
him  over  to  burlesque,  for  his  life, 
though  abounding  in  humor,  was 
concerned  with  all  that  the  imagina¬ 
tion  of  man  has  made  pathetic.” 
The  negro  of  the  minstrel  show, 
black  with  burnt  cork,  sleek  and 
saucy,  white  -  eyed,  red  -  lipped, 
crowned  with  plug  hat,  wearing 
enormous  shoes,  and  carrying  a 
banjo,  rises  to  the  dignity  of  a  cari¬ 
cature  only  in  the  external  appear¬ 
ance.  The  wit  reeks  with  stale. 
\,beer  and  the  Bowery.  Foster’s 
u  My  Old  Kentucky  Home  ”  is  sim¬ 
ply  u  Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin”  turned 
into  a  song  ;  and  the  latter,  says  Ir¬ 
win  Russell,  “  powerfully  written  as 
it  is,  gives  no  more  true  idea  of  ne¬ 
gro  life  and  character  than  one  could 
get  from  the  Nautical  Almanac,  and, 
like  most  other  political  documents, 
is  quite  the  reverse  of  true  in  almost 
every  respect.”  These  contain  the 
sentiments  and  the  thoughts  of  artist- 
philanthropists  belonging  to  a  race 
“  three  or  four  thousand  years  in  ad- 

24 


Joel  CbanOler  Ibarrls. 


vance  of  them  [the  negroes]  in  men¬ 
tal  capacity  and  moral  force.”  They 
do  breathe  with  infinite  pathos  the 
homely  affection,  the  sorrows  and 
hopes  of  everyday  life,  as  these  have 
been  developed  and  conceived  by  the 
white  race  ;  but  who  ever  heard  that 
this  was  a  favorite  song  or  that  a 
favorite  book  in  any  community  of 
negroes?  And  so  Mr.  Page’s  “Marse 
Chan  ”  and  “  Meh  Ladv,”  and  Mr. 
Allen’s  “Two  Gentlemen  of  Ken¬ 
tucky,”  are  the  answers  of  genius 
to  genius  and  art  pitted  against  art 
in  this  great  controversy,  v  In  them 
the  devotion,  the  doglike  fidelity, 
and  the  unselfishness  of  the  negro 
are  used  to  intensify  the  pathos  of 
the  white  man’s  situation,  just  as  in 
the  other  case  the  pathos  of  the  ne¬ 
gro’s  situation  was  utilized  to  excite 
the  philanthropy  of  the  white  man. 
In  both  cases  the  negro  is  a  mere 
accessory,  used  to  heighten  the  ef¬ 
fect.  It  seems  to  be  almost  an  im¬ 
possibility  for  song  writer,  novelist, 
or  serious  historian  to  appreciate  the 

25 


3oel  GbanDler  Ibarrte* 


f 


nature  or  understand  the  condition 
of  the  plantation  negroes ;  for  oth¬ 
erwise,  how  can  we  account  for  so 
glaring  a  misconception  as  Mr. 
Bryce’s,  that  they  remained,  up  to 
the  eve  of  emancipation,  “  in  their 
notions  and  habits  much  what  their 
ancestors  were  in  the  forests  of  the 
Niger  or  the  Congo.” 

(CThe  Southern  plantation  negro 
sprang  from  the  child  race  of  hu¬ 
manity,  and  possessed  only  so  much 
civilization  as  his  contact  with  the 
white  man  gave  him.  Like  children, 
he  used  smiles,  cunning,  deceit,  du¬ 
plicity,  ingenuity,  and  all  the  other 
wiles  by  which  the  weaker  seek 
to  accommodate  themselves  to  the 
stronger.  (Brer  Rabbit  was  his  hero, 
and  u  it  is  not  virtue  that  triumphs, 
but  helplessness ;  it  is  not  malice, 
but  mischievousness.”)  In  the  course 
of  time  he  became  remarkable  for 
both  inherent  and  grafted  qualities. 
Gratitude  he  was  distinguished  for ; 
hospitality  and  helpfulness  were  his 
natural  creed ;  brutality  was  con- 


26 


Joel  CbanDIer  Ibards* 


spicuously  absent,  considering  the 
prodigious  depth  of  his  previous 
degradation.  He  did  not  lack  cour¬ 
age,  industry,  self-denial,  or  virtue. 
He  did  an  immense  amount  of  quiet 
thinking,  and,  with  only  such  forms 
of  expression  as  his  circumstances 
furnished,  he  indulged  in  paradox, 
hyperbole,  aphorism,  sententious 
comparison,  and  humor.  He  treas¬ 
ured  his  traditions,  was  enthusiastic, 
patient,  long-suffering,  religious,  rev¬ 
erent.  u  Is  there  not  poetry  in  the 
character?”  asked  Irwin  Russell, 
the  first,  perhaps,  to  conceive  and  to 
delineate  it  with  real  fidelity  to  life. 
Since  his  all  too  untimely  taking  off 
many  have  attempted  this  subject ; 
but  no  one  has  equaled  the  crea¬ 
tor  of  u  Uncle  Remus,”  one  of  the 
very  few  creations  of  American 
writers  worthy  of  a  place  in  the 
gallery  of  the  immortals ;  and  he 
should  be  hung  in  the  corner  with 
such  gentlemen  as  Col.  Newcome 
and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  and 
not  very  far  from  Rip  Van  Win- 

27 


r 


5ocl  CbanMer  Ibartte. 


kle,  my  Uncle  Toby,  and  Jack  Fal- 
staff. 

Before  the  war  Uncle  Remus  had 
always  exercised  authority  over  his 
fellow-servants.  He  had  been  the 
captain  of  the  corn  pile,  the  stoutest 
at  the  log  rolling,  the  swiftest  with 
the  hoe,  the  neatest  with  the  plow, 
the  leader  of  the  plantation  hands. 
Now  he  is  an  old  man  whose  tall 
figure  and  venerable  appearance  are 
picturesque  in  the  extreme,  but  he 
moves  and  speaks  with  the  vigor,  of 
perennial  youth.  He  is  the  embod¬ 
iment  of  the  quaint  and  homely  hu¬ 
mor,  the  picturesque  sensitiveness — 
a  curious  exaltation  of  mind  and 
temperament  not  to  be  defined  by 
words — and  the  really  poetic  imagi¬ 
nation  of  the  negro  race  ;  and  over 
all  is  diffused  the  genuine  flavor  of 
the  old  plantation.  With  the  art  to 
conceal  art,  the  anthor  retires  behind 
the  scenes  and  lets  this  patriarch  re¬ 
veal  negro  life  and  character  to  the 
world.  Now  it  is  under  the  guise 
of  Brer  Rabbit,  after  his  perilous 

28 


3oel  CbatiDler  Ifoatris. 


adventure  with  the  tar  baby  and  nar¬ 
row  escape  from  Brer  Fox  as  he  is 
seen  “  settin’  cross-legged  on  a  chink¬ 
apin  log  koamin’  de  pitch  outen  his 
har  wid  a  chip,”  and  “  dingin’  back 
some  er  his  sass,  c  Bred  and  bawn  in 
a  brier  patch,  Brer  Fox;  bred  and 
bawn  in  a  brier  patch  !  ’  ”  Another 
phase  is  seen  in  u  Why  Brer  Possum 
Loves  Peace,”  a  story  of  indolent 
good  nature,  questionable  valor,  and 
nonsensical  wisdom  :  “  I  don’  min’ 
fightin’  no  mo’  dan  you  doz,  sez'ee, 
but  I  declar’  to  grashus  ef  I  kin 
stall’  ticklin.’  An’  down  ter  dis  day,” 
continued  Uncle  Remus,  “  down  ter 
dis  day,  Brer  Possum’s  boun’  ter 
s’render  w’en  you  tech  him  in  de 
short  ribs,  en  he’ll  laff  ef  he  knows 
he’s  gwine  ter  be  smashed  for  it.” 
This  whimsical  defense  of  inborn 
cowardice  has  a  touch  of  nature  in 
it  which  makes  it  marvelously  akin 
to  Sir  John’s  counterfeiting  on 
Shrewsbury  plain.  But  the  pre¬ 
vailing-  interest  is  centered  in  Brer 
Rabbit’s  skill  in  outwitting  Brer 

29 


3-oe i  CbanDler  Harris* 


Fox  and  the  other  animals,  which  is 
managed  with  such  cleverness  and 
good  nature  that  we  cannot  but  sym¬ 
pathize  with  the  hero,  in  spite  of  his 
utter  lack  of  conscience  or  convic¬ 
tion.  But  the  chief  merit  of  these 
stories,  as  Mr.  Page  has  remarked, 
springs  directly  from  the  fact  that 
Uncle  Remus  knows  them,  is  relat¬ 
ing  them,  and  is  vivifying  them  with 
his  own  quaintness  and  humor,  and 
is  impressing  us  in  every  phase  with 
his  own  delightful  and  lovable  per¬ 
sonality.  (~Mr  .  Harris’s  skill  in  nar¬ 
rative  is  well-nigh  perfect,  and  the 
conversation,  in  which  his  books 
abound,  is  carried  on  with  absolute 
naturalness  and  fidelity  to  life.  The 
habit  of  thought  as  well  as  of  speech 
is  strikingly  reproduced.  Not  a 
word  strikes  a  false  note,  not  a  scene 
or  incident  is  out  of  keeping  with  the 
spirit  of  the  life  presented.  No  one 
has  more  perfectly  preserved  some 
of  the  most  important  traits  of  South¬ 
ern  character,  nor  more  enchanting- 
ly  presented  some  of  the  most  beau- 

30 


Joel  CbanDler  Ibartle. 


tiful  phases  of  Southern  civiliza¬ 
tion.  / 

Other  phases  of  negro  character, 
very  different  from  those  presented  in 
the  “Legends,”  appeared  in  the  “Say¬ 
ings”  and  in  various  “Sketches,” 
which  reproduce  “  the  shrewd  ob- 
ervations,  the  curious  retorts,  the 
homely  thrusts,  the  quaint  com¬ 
ments,  and  the  humorous  philosophy 
of  the  race  of  which  Uncle  Remus 
is  a  type.”  But  in  “  Nights  with 
Uncle  Remus,”  “Daddy  Jake  the 
Runaway,”  and  “Uncle  Remus  and 
His  Friends”  we  returned  again  to 
the  old  plantation  home ;  “  daddy,” 
“mammy,”  and  the  “field  hands” 
lived  once  more  with  their  happy, 
smiling  faces  ;  songs  floated  out  upon 
the  summer  air,  laden  with  the  per¬ 
fume  of  rose  and  honeysuckle  and 
peach  blossom,  and  mingled  with 
the  rollicking  medley  of  the  mock¬ 
ing  bird  ;  and  we  felt  that  somehow 
over  the  whole  life  the  spell  of  gen¬ 
ius  had  been  thrown,  rendering  it 
immortal.  But  it  is  with  and  through 

31 


$oel  Cbanbler  Ibatris. 


the  negro  that  Mr.  Harris  has 
wrought  this  wonder,  for  as  Mr. 
Page  says  :  “No  man  who  has  ever 
written  has  known  one-tenth  part 
about  the  negro  that  Mr.  Harris 
knows,  and  for  those  who  hereafter 
shall  wish  to  find  not  merely  the 
words,  but  the  real  language  of  the 
negro  of  that  section,  and  the  habits 
of  mind  of  all  American  negroes  of 
the  old  time,  his  works  will  prove 
the  best  thesaurus.” 

Again  a  larger  world  beckoned  to 
the  writer,  as  to  the  boy,  and  he  en¬ 
tered  the  field  of  original  story-tell¬ 
ing  and  wider  creative  ability  with 
perfect  poise  and  consummate  liter¬ 
ary  art  in  “  Mingo,”  a  u  Cracker  ” 
tragedy,  disclosing  the  pent-up  rage 
of  a  century  against  aristocratic 
neighbors,  antipathy  to  the  negro, 
narrowness  and  pride,  happily  turned 
by  Mingo’s  gratitude  and  watchful 
and  protecting  love  for  his  young 
“  Mistiss’s  ”  fatherless  and  mother¬ 
less  little  girl  into  a  smiling  comedy, 
closing  with  this  pretty  picture : 

32 


5oel  Chandler  Ifcatrte. 


“  The  sunshine  falling  gentlv  upon 
his  gray  hairs,  and  the  little  girl 
clinging  to  his  hand  and  daintily 
throwing  kisses.”  Mingo,  drawn 
with  genuine  sympathy  and  true 
skill,  is  one  of  the  author’s  master¬ 
pieces  ;  but  we  are  somehow  spe¬ 
cially  attracted  to  Mrs.  Feratia  Biv¬ 
ins,  whose  u  pa  would  ’a’  bin  a  rich 
man,  an’  ’a’  owned  7iiggers ,  if  it 
hadn’t  but  ’a’  bin  bekase  he  sot  his 
head  agin  stintin’  of  his  stomach,” 
and  whose  sharp  tongue,  homely 
wit,  and  indignant  hate  portray  the 
first  of  a  group  of  the  Mrs.  Poyser- 
like  women  who  give  spice  as  well 
as  life  to  the  author’s  pages.  An¬ 
other  is  Mrs.  Kendrick  in  ct  Blue 
Dave  ” — of  which,  by  the  bye,  the 
author  says,  u  I  like  c  Blue  Dave  ’ 
better  than  all  the  rest,  which  is  an¬ 
other  way  of  saying  that  it  is  far 
from  the  best  ” — whose  humor  con- 

0 

ceals  her  own  emotions,  and  flashes 
a  calcium  light  upon  the  weaknesses 
of  others.  “  Well,  well,  well !  ”  said 
Airs.  Kendrick,  speaking  of  the  quiet, 
3  33 


3oel  CbanMcc  Ibatrte. 


self-contained,  elegant,  and  rather 
prim  Mrs.  Denham.  u  She  always 
put  me  in  mind  of  a  ghost  that  can’t 
be  laid  on  account  of  its  pride.  But 
we’re  what  the  Lord  made  us,  I  reck¬ 
on,  and  people  deceive  their  looks. 
My  old  turkey  gobbler  is  harmless 
as  a  hound  puppy,  but  I  reckon  he’d 
bust  if  he  didn’t  up  and  strut  when 
strangers  are  in  the  front  porch.” 
u  Uncle  Remus,”  u  Mingo,”  u  Blue 
Dave,”  and  u  Balaam  ”  belong  to  the 
class  which  “  has  nothing  but  pleas¬ 
ant  memories  of  the  discipline  of 
slavery,  and  which  has  all  the  preju¬ 
dices  of  caste  and  pride  of  family 
that  were  the  natural  results  of  the 
system.”  But  “  Free  Joe  ”  presents, 
another  phase — this  heart  tragedy 
brought  about  by  the  inhumanity  of 
man  and  the  pitiless  force  of  circum¬ 
stances.  Nowhere  has  the  helpless 
wretchedness  of  the  dark  side  of 
‘  slavery  been  more  clearly  recognized 
or  more  powerfully  depicted.  Truth 
demands  that  the  complete  picture 
shall  be  given,  though  silly  scrib- 


34 


3oel  CbanMec  Ibarrie, 


k  f? 


bier  or  narrow  bigot  may  accuse  the 
author  of  trying  to  cater  to  North¬ 
ern  sentiment.  Every  now  and  then'  , 
some  Southern  writer  is  subjected 
to  this  unmanly  and  ignoble  insult, 
though  much  less  frequently  than 
formerly.  Mr.  Maurice  Thompson’s 
poem  and  Mr.  Henry  Watterson’s 
speech  on  u  Lincoln,”  Mr.  James 
Lane  Allen’s  lecture  on  u  The  South 
in  Fiction,”  and  Mr.  W.  P.  Trent’s 
“  Life  of  William  Gilmore  Simms,” 
seem  to  produce  a  mild  form  of 
rabies  in  certain  quarters.  u  What 
does  it  matter,”  asks  Mr.  Harris, 

11  whether  I  am  Northern  or  South¬ 
ern,  if  I  am  true  to  truth,  and  true 
to  that  larger  truth,  my  own  true 
self?  My  idea  is  that  truth  is  more 
important  than  sectionalism,  and 
that  literature  that  can  be  labeled 
Northern,  Southern,  Western,  or 
Eastern  is  not  worth  labeling  at 
all.”  Shutting  one’s  eyes  to  facts 
removes  them  neither  from  life  nor 
from  history.  And  so  we  are  spe¬ 
cially  thankful  to  Mr.  Harris  for 

35 


3oel  CbanDler  Ibatrfs. 


“  Free  Joe,”  u  Little  Compton,”  and 
all  those  passages  in  “  On  the  Plan¬ 
tation  ”  and  his  other  writings  which 
lead  us  to  a  truer  and  larger  human¬ 
ity.  His  skillful  manner  of  convey¬ 
ing  a  lesson  is  admirably  done  at  the 
close  of  “Free  Joe.”  This  “black 
atom  drifting  hither  and  thither  with¬ 
out  an  owner,  blown  about  by  all  the 
winds  of  circumstance,  and  given 
over  to  shiftlessness,”  is  the  person¬ 
ification  of  helpless  suffering,  and 
yet  he  chuckles  as  he  slips  away 
from  the  cabin  of  the  cracker  broth¬ 
er  and  sister  into  the  night.  Micajah 
Staley,  however,  the  representative 
of  too  large  a  number,  says  :  “  Look 
at  that  nigger ;  look  at  ’im.  He’s 
pine  blank  as  happy  now  as  a  kildee 
by  a  mill  race.  You  can’t  ’faze  ’em. 
I’d  in  about  give  up  my  t’other  hand 
ef  I  could  stan’  flat-footed  an’  grin 
at  trouble  like  that  there  nigger.” 
“Niggers  is  niggers,”  said  Miss 
Becky,  smiling  grimly,  “  an’  you 
can’t  rub  it  out ;  yit  I  lay  I’ve  seed 
a  heap  of  white  folks  lots  meaner’n 

36 


3oel  Cbanbler  Ibarrfs. 


Free  Joe.  He  grins — and  that’s  nig- 
«  ger — but  I’ve  ketched  his  underjaw 
a  trimblin’  when  Lucindy’s  name  uz 
brung  up.”  He  was  found  dead  the 
next  morning, with  a  smile  on  his  face. 
“  It  was  as  if  he  had  bowed  and 
smiled  when  death  stood  before  him, 
humble  to  the  last.”  The  world  could 
ill  spare  woman’s  or  the  artist’s  eye. 

Other  stories,  as  “At  Teague  Po- 
teet’s,”  “Trouble  on  Lost  Moun¬ 
tain,”  and_  “Azalia,”  show  a  steady 
gain  in  the  range  of  Mr.  Harris’s 
creative  power.  The  keenest  inter¬ 
est  was  awakened-  when  the  first 
part  of  “At  Teague  Poteet’s”  came 
out  in  the  Century ,  May,  1883,  and 
the  reader  who  happened  to  turn  to 
the  Atlantic  for  the  same  month 
and  read  “  The  Harnt  That  Walks 
Chilhowee  ”  must  have  been  sur¬ 
prised  at  the  revelation  which  these 
two  admirable  stories  made  of  the 
real  and  potent  romance  of  the  moun¬ 
tains  and  valleys  of  Tennessee  and 
Georgia.  This  was  a  longer  and 
more  sustained  effort  than  Uncle 


37 


3oel  CbanDlet  Ibatrte. 


Remus  had  ever  attempted.  It 
evinced  an  eye  for  local  color,  ap-  * 
predation  of  individual  characteris¬ 
tics,  and  the  ability  to  catch  the  spirit 
of  a  people  that  could  be  as  open  as 
their  valleys  or  as  rugged,  enigmat¬ 
ical,  and  silent  as  their  mountains. 
Scene  and  character  were  vividly 
real,  and  the  story  was  told  with 
consummate  art  and  unflagging  in¬ 
terest  till  the  climax  was  reached. 
“Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain  ”  sus¬ 
tained  his  reputation  as  a  story-teller 
and  added  the  element  of  tragic 
power. 

At  a  first  glance  it  would  seem 
that  these,  with  his  previous  writ¬ 
ings,  give  promise  of  the  fully 
developed  novel  with  the  old  plan¬ 
tation  life  for  a  background  and  the 
nation  for  its  scope.  But  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  Mr.  Harris 
is  a  hard-working  journalist,  sel¬ 
dom  missing  a  day  from  his  desk  ; 
and  as  Mr.  Stedman  has  pointed  out 
in  regard  to  Bayard  T aylor,  “  this 
task  of  daily  writing  for  the  press, 

38 


Joel  CbanMer  Ibattls, 


while  a  good  staff,  is  a  poor  crutch ; 
it  diffuses  the  heat  of  authorship, 
checks  idealism,  retards  the  construc¬ 
tion  of  masterpieces.”  It  is  perhaps 
due  to  this  that  the  love  element  in 
these  stories  lacks  that  romantic  fer¬ 
vor  and  tenderness  which  make  all 
the  world  love  a  lover.  They  are 
vivid  and  dramatic,  sparkling  with 
humor  and  keen  observations,  and 
revealing  intimate  knowledge  of  hu¬ 
man  hearts.  But  in  “Azalia,”  for 
instance,  the  Southern  general  and 
his  mother  are  rather  conventional, 
and  Miss  Hallie  is  insipid,  though 
through  them  we  do  catch  glimpses 
of  old  Southern  mansions,  with  their 
stately  yet  simple  architecture,  ad¬ 
mirably  illustrative  of  the  lives  and 
characters  of  the  owners,  and  of  the 
unaffected,  warm,  and  gracious  old- 
time  hospitality.  The  Northern  la¬ 
dies,  too,  admirably  described  as 
they  are  in  a  few  words,  are  slight 
sketches  rather  than  true  present¬ 
ments.  This  story  is  particularly 
rich  in  types,  but  the  real  life  in  its 

39 


Joel  CbanDlec  Ibarris. 


humor  and  its  pathos  is  in  the  u  char¬ 
acters.”  Mrs.  Haley,  a  lineal  de¬ 
scendant  of  Mrs.  Poyser;  William, 
a  little  imp  of  sable  hue  that  might 
serve  as  a  weather-stained  statue  of 
comedy,  if  he  were  not  so  instinct 
with  life;  and  Emma  Jane  Stucky 
— the  representative  of  that  inde¬ 
scribable  class  of  people  known  as 
the  piny  woods  u  Tackies” — whose 
u  pale,  unhealthy-looking  face,  with 
sunken  eyes,  high  cheek-bones,  and 
thin  lips  that  seemed  never  to  have 
troubled  themselves  to  smile  —  a 
burnt-out  face  that  had  apparently 
surrendered  to  the  past  and  had  no 
hope  for  the  future  ” — remains  in¬ 
delibly  etched  upon  the  memory  ? 
making  its  mute  appeal  for  human 
sympathy  and  helpful  and  generous 
pity.  Like  all  genuine  humorists, 
Mr.  Harris  has  his  wit  always  sea¬ 
soned  with  love,  and  a  moral  purpose 
underlies  all  his  writings.  In  the 
twelve  volumes  or  more  which  he 
has  published  he  has  preserved  tra¬ 
ditions  and  legends,  photographed  a 

40 


5oel  Cbanbler  IDarrte. 


civilization,  perpetuated  types,  cre¬ 
ated  one  character.  Humor  and  sym- 
pathy  are  his  chief  qualities,  and  in 
everything  he  is  simple  and  natural. 
Human  character  is  stripped  of  tire¬ 
less  details.  The  people  speak  their 
natural  language,  and  act  out  their 
little  tragedies  and  comedies  accord¬ 
ing  to  their  nature.  u  W e  see  thertav 
share  their  joys  and  griefs,  laugh  at 
their  humor,  and  in  the  midst  of  all, 
behold,  we  are  taught  the  lesson  of 
honesty,  justice,  and  mercy.” 

In  person  Joel  Chandler  Harris  is 
somewhat  under  the  middle  height, 
compact,  broad  of  shoulder,  and  rath¬ 
er  rotund  about  the  waist.  But  he 
is  supple,  energetic,  and  his  swing- 
in  of  stride  still  tells  of  the  freedom 
which  the  boy  enjoyed  on  the  Tur¬ 
ner  plantation.  He  is  the  most  pro¬ 
nounced  of  blondes,  with  chestnut 
hair,  a  mustache  of  the  same  color, 
and  sympathetic,  laughing  blue  eyes. 
Sick  or  well,  he  is  always  in  a  good 
humor,  and  enjoys  his  work,  his 
friends,  and  his  family.  Sprung 

41 


$oel  Cbanbler  1bard5* 


from  a  simple,  sincere  race  whose 
wants  were  few  and  whose  tastes 
were  easily  satisfied,  he  is  very  hon¬ 
est  and  outspoken  in  his  opinions 
and  convictions,  and  the  whole  na% 
ture  of  the  man  tends  to  earnestness, 
simplicity,  and  truth.  (“I  like  peo¬ 
ple,”  he  says,  “  who  are  what  they 
are,  and  are  not  all  the  time  trying^ 
to  be  what  somebody  else  has  been.”v 
In  spite  of  the  fame  which  has  come 
unbidden,  he  still  delights  to  luxu¬ 
riate  in  the  quiet  restfulness  of  his 
semirural  home  in  the  little  suburb 
of  West  End,  three  miles  from  the 
heart  of  Atlanta  ;  and  we  confess  that 
we  like  best  to  think  of  him,  as  Mr. 
Brainerd  once  described  him  in  the 
Critic,  in  this  typical  Southern  cot¬ 
tage  nestling  in  a  grove  of  sweet 
gum  and  pine,  enlivened  by  the  sing¬ 
ing  of  a  family  of  mocking  birds  that 
wintered  in  his  garden — and  not  a 
bird  among  them,  we  imagined,  with 
whose  peculiarities  he  was  not  fa¬ 
miliar.  In  a  distant  corner  of  his 
inclosure  a  group  of  brown-eyed 

42 


3oel  Gbanfcler  Ibarrte, 


Jerseys  grazed.  Hives  of  bees  were 
placed  near  a  flower  garden  that 
sloped  down  to  the  bubbling  spring 
at  the  foot  of  the  road,  a  few  rods 
distant.  The  casual  visitor,  we  were 
told,  was  apt  to  be  eyed  by  the  dig¬ 
nified  glance  of  a  superb  English 
mastiff,  followed  by  the  bark  of 
two  of  the  finest  dogs  in  the  coun¬ 
try — one  a  bull  dog,  the  other  a 
white  English  bull  terrier.  But  this 
was  published  in  1885,  and  now  Mr. 
Garsney,  in  the  Book  Buyer  for 
March,  1896,  tells  us  that  the  44  grove 
of  sweet  gums,”  the  44  babbling 
brook,”  and  the  44  droning  bees  are 
all  fictions  of  somebody  else’s  poetic 
fancy.”  Still  Mr.  Garsney,  in  his 
setting  for  the  author  of  44  Uncle 
Remus,”  has  the  eye  of  an  artist 
and  is  himself  full  of  poetry,  how¬ 
ever  ruthless  he  may  be  with  u  po¬ 
etic  fancies,”  for  after  placing  him 
“  amid  his  roses,”  he  adds:  44  The% 
roses  are  his  one  passion,  and  under 
his  tender  care  the  garden — the  finest 
rose  garden  in  Atlanta  outside  of  a 

43 


Joel  GbanMer  Ibarrte. 


florist’s  domain — blooms  with  prod¬ 
igal  beauty  from  May  until  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  December.  In  the  early  sum¬ 
mer  mornings,  when  the  mocking 
birds  are  trying  their  notes  in  the, 
cedar,  and  the  wrens  are  chirping 
over  their  nest  in  the  old  mail  box 
at  the  gate,  you  can  hear  the  snip¬ 
ping  of  the  pruning  shears,  and  you 
know  that  Joel  Chandler  Harris  is 
caressing  his  roses  while  the  dew  is 
\  yet  on  their  healthy  leaves.” 

In  this  home,  with  its  spacious  ve¬ 
randas,  generous  hearths,  and  wide, 
sunny  windows,  the  right  man  is 
sure  to  find  a  welcome.  The  house 
is  one  in  which  bric-a-brac,  trump¬ 
ery,  and  literary  litter  are  conspic¬ 
uously  absent,  but  evidently  a  home 
where  wife  and  children  take  the 
place  of  these  inanimate  objects  of 
devotion.  But  here  the  man  Joel 
Chandler  Harris,  as  Carlyle  would 
have  said,  is  seen  at  his  best.  It 
is  here  that  the  usually  silent  or 
monosyllabic  figure  takes  on  life 
and  shares  with  another  his  inner 

44 


$ocl  CbanDlec  Ibatrls. 


wealth  of  thought  and  fancy.  Mr. 
Garsney,  who  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  an  inmate  of  this  home  for 
some  months,  and  to  whose  sketch 
the  writer  is  indebted  for  many  of 
these  personal  remarks  and  ob¬ 
servations,  thus  describes  certain 
rare  moments  :  u  It  is  in  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  a  summer  evening,  on  the 
great  front  porch  of  his  house,  or 
by  his  fireside,  with  no  light  save 
that  from  the  flickering  coals  which 
he  loves  to  punch  and  caress,  that 
the  man  breaks  forth  into  conver¬ 
sation.  I  have  had  in  these  rare 
twilight  hours  the  plot  of  a  whole 
book  unfolded  to  me — a  book  that 
is  yet  in  the  dim  future,  but  which 
will  make  a  stir  when  it  appears ; 
I  have  heard  stories  innumerable  of 
old  plantation  life  and  of  happen¬ 
ings  in  Georgia  during  the  war ; 
and  I  have  heard  through  the  mouth 
of  this  taciturn  and  unliterary-look- 
ing  man  more  thrilling  stories  of 
colonial  life  in  the  South  than  I 
had  believed  the  South  held.  At 

45 


3oel  Cbanbler  Ibarrts. 


these  times  the  slight  hesitancy  that 
is  usually  apparent  in  his  speech  dis¬ 
appears  ;  his  thoughts  take  words 
and  come  forth,  tinged  by  the  quaint 
Georgia  dialect,  in  so  original  a 
shape  and  so  full  of  human  nature 
that  one  remembers  these  hours  long 
afterwards  as  times  to  be  marked 
with  a  white  stone.” 

But  it  is  only  to  the  chosen  com¬ 
panion  that  he  thus  unlocks  his 
treasures.  He  seldom  has  more 
than  a  word  for  ordinary  acquaint¬ 
ances,  and  the  ubiquitous  interview¬ 
er  he  avoids  as  a  deadly  plague. 
From  him  the  autograph  fiends 
get  no  response,  and  many  amus¬ 
ing  stories  are  told  of  his  suc¬ 
cess  in  eluding  sightseers  and  lion- 
hunters.  No  inducement  has  yet 
prevailed  upon  him  to  appear  in 
public,  either  as  a  reader  or  as  a  lec¬ 
turer.  UI  would  not  do  it  for  $i,- 
000,000,”  was  once  his  response  to 
an  invitation  to  lecture.  Many  po¬ 
sitions  of  great  trust  and  prominence, 
we  are  told,  have  been  refused  by 

46 


3oel  Gbanblet  1barrts» 


him,  for  he  says  :  “  If  the  greatest 
position  on  the  round  earth  were  to 
be  offered  me,  I  wouldn’t  take  it. 
The  responsibility  would  kill  me  in 
%  two  weeks.  Now  I  haven’t  any  care 
or  any  troubles,  and  I  have  resolved 
never  to  worry  any  more.  Life  is 
all  a  joke  to  me.  Why  make  it  a 
care  ?  ” 

To  those  who  are  engaged  in  the 
pigmy  contests  for  money  and  place 
this  philosophy  will  doubtless  ap¬ 
pear  tame  and  unheroic.  But  for  a 
man  of  Mr.  Harris’s  peculiar  gifts 
and  temperament  it  is  the  highest 
wisdom.  It  means  the  saving  for 
mankind  what  a  few  would  squan¬ 
der  upon  themselves.  It  means  more 
inimitable  stories,  and  since  his  suc¬ 
cess  in  the  past  justifies  us  in  expect¬ 
ing  it,  and  especially  since  he  has 
reached  the  age  of  ripest  wisdom 
and  supremest  effort  on  the  part  of 
genius,  it  means,  we  may  hope, 
a  work  into  which  he  will  put 
the  wealth  of  his  mind  and  heart, 
and  expand  and  compress  into  one 


3-oel  CbanDlev  Harris. 


novel  the  completest  expression  of 
his  whole  being.  But  if  he  should 
never  give  us  a  masterpiece  of  fiction 
like  his  beloved  “Vicar  of  Wake¬ 
field,”  “  Ivanhoe,”  “Vanity  Fair,” 
or  “  The  Scarlet  Letter,”  we  shall 
still  be  forever  grateful  for  the  fresh 
and  beautiful  stories,  the  delightful 
humor,  the  genial,  manly  philosophy, 
and  the  wise  and  witty  sayings  in 
which  his  writings  abound.  /  His 
characters  have  become  world  pos¬ 
sessions  ;  his  words  are  in  all  our 
mouths.  By  virtue  of  these  gifts  he 
will  be  enrolled  in  that  small  but  dis¬ 
tinguished  company  of  humorists, 
the  immortals  of  the  heart  and  home, 
whose  genius,  wisdom,  and  charity 
keep  fresh  and  sweet  the  springs  of 
life,  and  Uncle  Remus  will  live  al¬ 
ways.  ) 


48 


